


Kerosene

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor returns to give Nienna a brief moment of peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kerosene

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For this week’s [silmread on tumblr.](http://silmread.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She hears the footsteps from far away and knows that it’s _him_. No one else walks with such force, such confidence, through her halls, and she had so very few visitors before him, he himself only rarely. It’s always this way; she doesn’t go to him. She rarely leaves. She waits here for him to be _ready_ : she sits in her chair by the window and wonders, not for the first time, if she should close her doors and bid him leave.

But he’s too fast for her. He’s in the chamber before her tumultuous thoughts have reached their peak, his fair features twisting into a grin full of such complex things, his aura flickering through a dizzying spectrum. There’s malice there—always is and always has been and likely always will be—but not for her, _never for her._ His dark eyes flicker over her, and his pause makes her wonder; does he expect her to go to him?

She can’t move. Paralyzed as she is nearly every passing hour, Nienna waits for Melkor. Sometimes, he outstretches one hand, beckoning her over like a beast, and she _thinks of moving_ but never does. Then he’ll sigh and try again another time, like training her to be _real_.

Nienna’s an ephemeral mist that wilts in her chair until he comes nearer. Melkor stalks across the chamber like a black fire, searing through the tears of her halls and bringing burning _light_ and cloying darkness. He comes right before her and reaches out, grabs her by either arm and wrenches her out of her chair. The second their skin brushes through the cracks in his armour— _solid little cells she still isn’t used to_ —she senses all of him. She feels pity for him. More for him than anyone else she’s ever known. But this frail elf-like body she’s still growing used to feels _more_ , and the familiar warmth rises inside her. She can’t explain it. He’s like her, trapped in forms so different than when they started, but he’s comfortable and slick and so, so _handsome_. She knows it even without understanding it. He holds her on her feet, taller and broader and _stronger_ , and he looks down into her eyes. There’s a tear forming at the edge of one: always is. His thumb brushes it away. 

Then he kisses her. Harsh, faster than the rest of her world but still slow enough not to startle her, he presses in and his lips seem to sear hers. Her face is moist from crying and puts out the flame, a thin trail of smoke escaping the edges of their mouths. He pulls back afterwards and strokes her cheek. Nienna leans her forehead against his chest, simply so she won’t have to speak, and because, sometimes, his eyes are too intense for her. 

He chuckles fondly and rakes one iron-clad hand through her long hair. He’s all in armour, often is, her dress gossamer-thin. He tugs the loose neckline down over one shoulder and bends to kiss it, while Nienna reaches slowly to hold onto his neck. 

He bends her backwards. 

He lowers her down, right over the floor, and she lets herself fall, until she’s sprawled across the cold stone with her hair and dress in great pools about her. He looms over to cast her all in shadow, blocking out the flickering lanterns and stars outside the window. She can still hear the gentle lap of the ocean against the walls of her home, far down below, and it gives her a small flicker of _something_ in her chest—Melkor _hates the ocean_ , but he comes here anyway... for _her_?

He kisses her again, tilting her skull so a different angle grinds into the floor. He holds one palm against her face and lets the other trail down her body, caressing the soft curves that Ilúvatar saw fit to give her. The first time, he was _so gentle_. The second the same, and she was the same. Then he grew different, held her down and bound her hands, and she was no different. Melkor is unpredictable, and now he’s different every time, but he never hurts her, and he thanks her often for her vote in his pardon, and she nods and would do no different again, even though she’s seen things in him that would make Tulkas level mountains in rage. 

Today, he’s his most common, kind and _good_ to her but still himself: not trying too hard to pretend he’s any softer than he is. He kisses her with fervor but necessary restraint—her body bruises easily. He strokes her instead of grabbing, but he still takes what he wants. He pries her legs apart, and she acquiesces, lets him spread her thighs and hike them up around him. Her knees cling lightly to the metal at his waist, her delicate fingers between the spikes along his shoulders. His hair is coarse as it drapes over the sides of her face, dark as his eyes. Then his head tilts and his teeth graze from her lower lip to her jaw, down her throat and over her neck. He mouths shallowly at her while he hikes her skirt around her waist and cups between her legs. Her arms loop around his shoulders and tighten, a gasp finally leaving her lips. She thinks she’d rather his bare hands— _his long, thick fingers_ —instead of the welded slats of his glove, but she doesn’t have the words so says nothing. He fondles her. It still feels...

Nienna groans. She squirms beneath him, growing quickly wet and hot between her legs. His mouth becomes fiercer, though all the bites he gives her are shallow, careful. Her eyes are scrunched closed, but she opens them when he tugs her hair. Obediently, she looks at him. Knows what he wants. He looks back at her, eyes so wholly captivating and _wild_ , and she sees why he feels such an urge to _conquer_ —he is the greatest, the mightiest, of all that has been made or will be made, and the sheer thought of his power makes her shiver. She’s honoured, yet feels like she might break under it. He squeezes her and she gasps again, and he draws his hand away to purr, “ _Nienna_...”

She holds herself open for him. He makes it seem so intimate, though they have nothing else. He has no one else, and she’s never touched another soul. Never wanted to. Never even thought of it. He unclasps the armour about his waist, twisting and removing sheets of metal, until his flesh protrudes from it. She watches, mildly fascinating, then lays back again and returns to watching his face. He holds himself against her, connects their eyes, then pushes in. 

It hurts. It always does, and she winces, but he kisses her cheek, and he moves slowly and rubs at her outside until the pain ebbs away. Her breathing loosens somewhat, quickened as it was. He slips inside her gradually, bit by bit, in a fluid, rocking motion. Eventually, he’s all the way inside, and her hands are white-knuckled against his shoulders, her body trembling. 

He draws out and slides back in, grinding into her and certain places that make her keen with sudden _pleasure_. She never knew that before him. But he touches her—kisses her, caresses her, drives into her—over and over, building more and more of the slick, wondrous delight that fills her being, clouds her head. For a little while, the pleasure drowns out the pain of everything else in her existence—all the many things she sobs over. She can forget who and what she is and simply get lost in him, drown in his strength, in how he makes her feel. All his others sins dissolve away in the face of that. Melkor creates something in her that couldn’t exist without him: he makes her feel, in these private moments, _alive_. 

She’ll always free him for it. Always speak on his behalf, she hopes, always open her halls to him. Her fingers thread through his hair and tangle, grabbing, not trying to be rough but simply helpless, thoughtless. She buries her face in his neck in the times when he isn’t kissing her, and even then he still mouths at her cheek, her neck, the crook of her shoulder. He takes her steady, faithful. He’s patient, thoughtful. She’s useless in his arms, and still he pleasures her, until it’s building and she can see the end—and she claws at it and _doesn’t want to_ , doesn’t want to return to a world where _Melkor isn’t with her_ , not while she finally feels _good and free_ , but he’s too masterful and she’s too weak to stop it. The pleasure mounts, and she opens her mouth in a soundless cry, tossing back along the floor and arching up, body rippling with joy and sorrow for the end. It washes over her. She drifts, weightless, boneless, only to simmer back into her body. 

Then, spent, she clings to him, curls tight around him while he milks out his own release. He goes until he finishes inside her, then draws out to paint her thighs in a mess he won’t stay long enough to tidy. Someday, she thinks she’ll ask him to carry her down to the ocean. 

She doesn’t. She unfurls to lie along the floor, and he looms over her again. He brushes her hair away from her eyes and kisses her, rearing back up to promise, “You are so beautiful.”

She blinks. She reaches for him but doesn’t quite connect. She wants to hold him here and beg him to stay with her and not ruin the world. She opens her mouth, and he seems to understand and simply kisses her again. 

Then he rises to his feet. He returns his armour into place, glistening in the starlight like the many jewels he’s forged—pretty trinkets he’s occasionally brought to drape around her neck or fasten in her hair. She stays on the floor, and he looks at her, at her panting body. 

He turns to leave and walks away, footsteps the same as when he first arrived. She lets him go. 

She looks at the starry mural of her ceiling and lets new tears fall for her return to the world, for him and all his pain, and for the day that she won’t see him anymore.


End file.
